Saturday, July 27, 2013

She gazed out of the window, and
her heart roiled with disgust and shame. She despised him, and she despised
herself for loving him. But she was no longer that naive young girl who had
been so in love with the handsome, victorious young man, or the innocent young
wife who had helped her husband escape her father’s murderous plots. David and
Saul – between them they had destroyed her innocence, trampled on her pride,
and confused her heart till her one overriding idea was to protect herself from
further hurt and guard her fragile dignity with everything she had left. She
was the wife of a king and the daughter of a king, horse-traded by her father
from one husband to another, only to be demanded back again by her first
husband, but more as a status-symbol than his heart’s beloved since there were
now other women in his life and in his bed.

And now, when dignity was all she
had left, he was throwing it all to the wind, dancing like a crazy man out
there in the street, half-naked, as if there were no level to which he would
not lower himself as he celebrated the return of the Ark. How could such
foolishness ever be appropriate to the worship of God or the dignity of the
king? She could think of no reason in the world for him to dance like that, it
was a betrayal of their royalty, and she turned her head away from the window
as angry tears blurred her sight.

It was hours later when he returned
to his own household, tired, exalted and smelling of the smoke of sacrifice,
hours she had spent considering her wrongs and re-casting him as her betrayer.
All she had left was her royalty, and now she found herself married, as she saw
it, to an oaf. Her tongue was bitter with reproaches as she came out to meet
him.

David was astonished. Couldn’t she
see? Couldn’t she understand? He wasn’t a king because of some dignity he had
constructed to make other men elevate him. He was king only and entirely
because God had put him there. God had removed the house of Saul, God had
overlooked David’s older brothers and placed David on the throne in an act of
crazy, glorious grace. How could David’s dignity be of any importance at all?
How could any man’s pride or vanity or fragile self-construction matter before
such a God? How could it stay standing in the whirlwind of such love?

He shook his head in bewilderment.
Today they had celebrated the great glory and wonder of Israel’s God as the
Ark, the material sign of His presence, was welcomed back into Jerusalem. If
ever there was a reason to dance, to forget self in the wonder-joy of such a
gift to a people who had done nothing to earn it, then this was it. And if God
asked it of him, he would abase himself further and think nothing of it. It was
strange indeed that the lowliest in the land, the poor, the needy, the slaves,
could understand exactly why he danced, and join with him in the tear-bedecked
rejoicing of the meek who inherit the earth, the dispossessed who possess all
things; Yet this proud woman, Michal, daughter of one king and wife of another,
could only pour scorn upon his worship. And if she had so closed her heart
against God, there were no words he knew that could make her understand.

Saturday, July 20, 2013

The old man stood and gazed down
upon the people – his people, his burden, his torment, his disappointment, the
ones he had come to love so very, very much. He knew that this was the last
time he would ever talk to them like this, and his heart was heavy with the
longing for them to understand, to finally grasp who their God was and take
hold of Him by faith. Some of them understood of course, and he looked at his
young Lieutenant Joshua with a fond smile. Not that Joshua was young now
either, his youth and his middle years had been taken from him by the harsh
silence of the desert, the clamour of the cattle, the unending demands of these
people, who always seemed to want the impossible, and a little bit more
besides.

He told them their story again: the
one they must pass on to their children and their children’s children; the
story that gave them an identity, but, far more importantly, showed them who
their God was, and what they must do to stay sealed to Him in unique and
glorious covenant. For their story was nothing less than the revelation of God
Himself, the God who redeemed His people and called them apart from all the
nations of the earth to walk in His ways, and receive the promised blessing. To
turn away from that story was to turn away from God.

He paused and looked out across the
multitude, this nation, the promised seed of Abraham, and, his sight so clear
in the presence of God and the nearness of death, he prophesied over them,
tribe by tribe, as they stood ranked in their families and clans: Reuben,
Judah, Levi... he named them and he blessed them in the words which he was
given, seeing what lay before them and the encouragement they would need. He gathered
them all in with his words, looking down the long years towards what would be.
He saw their struggles, their to-ing and fro-ing between the God who had called
them and the easy, sensual ways of the surrounding nations. They would enter
the Promised Land, they would leave the Promised Land, they would enter it
again. They would know glory and shame, plenty and dearth. What encouragement
could he leave for the faithful, for the remnant that would always cling to
their God, through the whirling years? They would have to be able to see beyond
the outward show of things, to know, with rock-solid certainty, what lay
underneath.

And now he knew
exactly what to say. He raised his voice in triumphant praise of the God who
was like no other, the all-powerful one who could never be defeated. “The eternal
God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms!” he declared. That
was the thing that they must know, the place where their faith could find rest
and root – nothing less than the burning, overwhelming love of God. He had met
that love like fire in the bush and on the mountain, but he could not give them
that experience, only the overwhelming truth he had learned, to look beyond the
tumult and terror of the world, and rest where there would always be rest, on
the arms of God which were always underneath.

Friday, July 19, 2013

“In the stars His handiwork I see,On the wind He speaks with majesty,Though He ruleth over land and sea,What is that to me? “[1]

If you are of a certain age you will recognize that song,
it was very popular in youth groups in the seventies. I first encountered it in
1971, in ISCF at school, a group which I had only started going to in Year 11
as a brand new Christian. I will never forget my emotional reaction when I
first heard it – someone was telling my story!

My story, at least in this truncated account, begins with
an unhappy teenager. Of course, we all know it really begins with the God who
loved us from before the foundation of the world, but this is the subjective
version, about a girl in an unhappy, dysfunctional family who used to escape to
the backyard at night to cry in the darkness and look up at the stars. It was
those stars that convinced me that God was real, I could not look at their
beauty and believe they were just cosmic accidents, or, if they were, where did
my deep emotional response to them come from? Was the courage I drew from their
loveliness merely a cosmic accident too? I found that very hard to believe.

I had started trying to figure out the truth at the age of
twelve, reading a very simple book on comparative religion and finding most of
the alternatives (Islam, Buddhism etc) quite repellent, to this day I struggle
to understand why some find them so attractive. But I knew it wasn’t simply a
matter of what I liked, but of what was true; so I would stand out there and
gaze at the stars, and cry out to their Maker that He would reveal Himself to
me.

“I will celebrate Nativity,For it has a place in history,Sure, He came to set His people free,What is that to me? “

Over time I became convinced that Christianity was
historically true. It is, as I recently read somebody saying, “the only
falsifiable religion,” i.e. the only one whose claims rest on historically
verifiable facts that can be proved or disproved. If, somehow, it could be
irrefutably proved tomorrow that Jesus never existed, or that He didn’t really
die and rise again from the dead, there would be no Christianity left. Our
faith rests on the objective truth of Who He is and what He has done.

This was a step forward, but it wasn’t enough and I knew it
wasn’t. I didn’t want just intellectual
consent to a philosophy, I wanted, as I put it to myself, ‘a God I can give my
whole self to.’ But I had no idea how to make that final step from theory to
relationship.

Till by faith I met Him face to face,and I felt the wonder of His grace,Then I knew that He was more than just aGod who didn't care,That lived a way out there and

The
crisis came when I had been attending the youth group at my church for a few
months and one of the leaders approached me and asked if I would be willing to
do the Bible reading at church the next Sunday. Now I was the shyest of shy
teens, and the thought of getting up and speaking (even just reading) in front
of people absolutely terrified me (and, yes, those who know me know that this
is an area of my life God has totally healed). “I couldn’t do that!” I
exclaimed, “It would be a test of nerve!”

His
reply shook me to the foundations, “No, it would be a test of faith.” I had no
arguments left, and consented. All week I prayed to a God whom I hoped actually
existed, “If you are really there you will have to come through for me. I can’t
do this.”

The
following Sunday night I walked up the front of the church still praying the
same thing. How does one describe that kind of encounter with God? All I can
say is that I walked up that aisle hoping that God existed, and walked back
down again knowing for certain that Jesus was Lord and I belonged to Him.

Now He walks beside me
day by day,Ever watching o'er me lest I stray,Helping me to find that narrow way,He's Everything to me.

Thursday, July 18, 2013

Three points on Modesty

By way of
introduction, I should point out that “modesty culture” is something I have
mainly learned about online, I have never been personally subjected to its full
force. I’m sure there are good reasons for this, my age, for one (it seems to
have become more virulent in recent years) but chiefly the differences between
Australian and American culture. Our dress codes are a lot more casual all
across the board, and fundamentalism has a much weaker voice. But, as I have
followed the conversations on this subject with interest and not a little
amazement, it seems to me that there are some things I haven’t seen expressed
which ought to be included in the conversation. Below, in no particular order
are three points I think should be mentioned ..

1. Lust is
something more than physiology

I am not sure how
to phrase this, because I don’t know who my readers will be, and I don’t want
to cause unnecessary offence, but nor do I want to beat around the bush and be
coyly obscure. Every adult knows that men have an automatic, involuntary physical
reaction to female attractiveness, but I want to suggest that a purely physical
response is not what the Bible means by lust, any more than salivating at the
smell of delicious food is the sin of gluttony. Lust is an attitude of mind,
not just a physical response. So you notice the distracting beauty of a woman,
so what? Have you sinned? Well, it depends on what you do about it. Do you live
with the inconveniences of the body (there’s a reason St Francis called it “Brother
Ass”) thank God that He made women beautiful and get on with what you’re doing,
or do you think that her desirability somehow gives you the right to objectify
her inside your head and reduce her to a lust object in your imagination? That,
after all, is what pornography does. And pornography as the interior drama of
lust, which reduces women made in their Creator’s image to nothing more than
the means of personal gratification, was not invented in the 20th
century. It is as old as the human heart and has at its root the same contempt
for others which lies at the heart of murder. Remember, Jesus was in every way
tempted as we are, yet was without sin[1]. So yes,
He must have been aware of the desirability of women, yet because He loved them
He never objectified them and did not sin against them. Women were safe with
Jesus not because He was a eunuch, but because He was Love.

2. What did
Jesus say?

Matt 5 makes it
very plain who Jesus held responsible for the lustful heart, 27 “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit
adultery.’[e]28 But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has
already committed adultery with her in his heart.29 If your right eye causes you to stumble,gouge it out and throw it away. It is
better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be
thrown into hell.30 And if your right
hand causes you to stumble,cut it off and
throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your
whole body to go into hell.

Yet very rarely do
we hear those side by side verses expounded together. It is not the woman’s
responsibility to preserve a man from lust, it is his own; and if he has to
curtail some part of his freedom and power, analogous to chopping off part of
his own body, in order to stop treating women as lust objects, then that is the
price he must pay. It is always the ones with more power and strength who have
the responsibility to lay down part of their privilege so that others may be
free. A man needs to examine his own heart before he starts blaming women for
his desires. He needs to grow up and take responsibility for himself.

3. Our clothing
talks, but do we know what it’s saying?

Does this mean
then that women can wear whatever they like without regard for “modesty”?

Yes. And no.

I say this because we are asking the wrong
question.

In 1Corinthians 10
Paul says, 23 “I
have the right to do anything,” you say—but not everything is beneficial.“I
have the right to do anything”—but not everything is constructive.24 No one should seek their own good, but the
good of others.”

You have the
freedom to wear whatever you like, and you are not responsible for men’s
responses, but there is also a place for being wise, not in terms of being
enslaved by someone else’s weakness, but in terms of being certain that your
clothes are saying what you want them to say.

Our clothing sends
social messages. If we didn’t believe that, we wouldn’t care what we wear, but
every time we choose what to wear beyond the minimal requirements of climate
and utility, we are saying something, telegraphing a message about ourselves to
the world. “I mean business.” “I’m classy.” “I’m very feminine.” “I don’t want
to be noticed.” “I take care of myself.” “I’m arty and non-conformist.” “I’ve
still got what it takes.” And so on, for the messages we send with our clothes
are as varied as the all the different personalities which women have, and the
many different roles we play. But these messages are also socially encoded, so
they are read differently in different times and places. And this is where we
can get messed up – we think our clothes are saying a particular thing, whilst
the people around us are reading them differently.

And this is the
point where we need to take responsibility in order, not because we have to to
be asexual or unattractive, but to make sure that the social messages we send
by the way we dress are saying the things we want them to say, and not
misrepresenting us.

Saturday, July 06, 2013

It is a strange journey he has made. Geographically, he
travelled to a far country, but that was only the beginning of his
extraordinary path, the prelude for all that was to follow. Socially, he has
occupied almost every position it is possible for a man of his age and time to
experience: favoured son, hated brother, slave, honoured servant, prisoner, and
now one of the mighty in the land. In the process his soul has been torn and
stretched and kneaded to a new design, a contour that has no recognisance in
the age in which he lives. Today, informed by a greater revelation, we
acknowledge with awe that it is the shape of a cross.

For this is the journey that really matters, the pilgrim path
that is hidden behind the outward patterns of his life, just as the gold or
silver to be refined is hidden within the furnace, a transformative miracle too
bright for our eyes to gaze on. And it has taken many years, and many tears
that were seen only by God, in the darkness of the pit, in the darkness of the
prison cell, in the darkness of the nights when memory pierced like a sharpened
spear and the stars hung in their places like a myriad unshed tears. He yearned
for so much, for that innocent time when he never dreamed of betrayal by his
own flesh and blood, for the rain-nourished pastures of Palestine, so different
from these Egyptian fields, for the opportunity to watch his little brother
grow up. Most of all, he missed his Father, and the special bond of love they
shared.

He had learned to hide his wounded heart very quickly. Slave
traders care nothing for the feelings of their merchandise, only that they
should refrain from any sulkiness that might lower their price. But inwardly he
seethed. How could his brothers do this to him? In his darker moments he would
plot fantasies of exquisite revenge, imagining what he could do if they were
ever in his power.

And now, beyond the
wildest reach of his imagination, it had actually happened. For a moment he
felt the choking flame of rage rise up inside him, but there was no fuel left
in his heart for it to feed on. He had changed. Through all these years,
through the heights and depths of his fortunes, he had set his heart to seek
God with fervour and conviction and hold steadily to his charted course despite
the injustices and setbacks. And this resolute pursuit of God had shaped and
transmuted his heart. How could he hold his resentment against his brothers
when God had turned it all to a good beyond his wildest dreams? Yes dreams,
those dreams, dreams of greatness and power over all his family. How he had
gleefully fed his ego on them so many years ago! Yet now, in this moment when
long-past dreams merged into the common day, there was no self-aggregation,
only awe that he had lived to inhabit such a Holy Place. And he could look upon
his brothers faces without anger and resentment, but marvel instead that his awkward,
resolute steps through the long desert years had led him to the place of
absolute forgiveness.

About Me

Mother of two grown up kids,and very long time married, after many years as a full-time mum, then a part-time theological student I'm now trying to be useful in my local church whilst working out what the next step is.I'm passionate about Jesus, treasure the people in my life and dream of being a preacher. I'm a would-be poet, a slightly eccentric cook, and an INFP (which must explain something).
And I'm a pickle: a weird shaped lump of something-or-other, a bit salty, a bit sweet, definitely an acquired taste, preserved by the grace of God and trying to add a bit of flavour to the blandness of modern life.